


i grew up in your white house

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Politics, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Demisexual Derek Hale, First Son Derek Hale, First Son Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Meet-Cute, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Panromantic Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 15:09:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8537815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: Derek sneaks away from the tour at the White House. He’s looking for one thing, and finds something else entirely.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for prompt #198 - Politics at Fullmoon Ficlet. I wanted to write something fluffy, something for smiling this week. So have this bit of first son!Stiles and well, Derek. :)

“You don’t belong here.”

Derek hears the voice and straightens up so fast that he cracks his head on the bottom of the desk. He grunts, presses his hand to the back of his head, and slithers out from where he’s managed to fold his body. His phone is still on the ground, the light shining up under the desk, as he stands and turns, hands out, fully expecting to see someone from the Secret Service with their gun out.

It’s a skinny guy with his hood up, face obscured. Faded jeans are ripped at the knees, and the beat-up red Converse look like they’ve been worn for a few years already. He has his hands shoved in his pockets, and stands with his back straight. Derek can’t see his face, but he can see the set of his jawline, tense and irritated.

“You don’t belong here, either,” Derek points out. He doesn’t remember this guy from the tour, but he’s damn sure that has to be where he came from. He nudges his glasses up on his nose, glances at his phone on the floor before he crouches slowly to get it. Just in case this guy is here to do something and is carrying a gun. Or a knife. Derek’s spent enough of his time in the public eye to be wary of trouble, and to know how to defend himself.

He’s not expecting the sharp, bitter laugh, or the self-deprecating tone of voice in response. “Funny, but you’re not the first one to say that in the last couple of months. But hey, the Stilinski family happens to be a package deal, so here I am. Pretty sure everyone’s glad that the national embarrassment is heading off to college in the fall.”

Derek’s back goes stiff. “You’re Stiles Stilinski.”

“Kid with the unpronounceable name who managed to face plant in the middle of every important ceremony, speech, and rally on the way to the White House, yep. That’s me.” Stiles spreads his hands, lets the hood fall back. “So, if you’re here to kill my dad, I’m going to have to do something about it. But if you’re thinking about kidnapping me, let’s get on with it.”

This isn’t what Derek expected when he snuck away from the tour. “Actually, I started out looking for my best friends—I’m pretty sure they’re making out in one of the rooms on this hall.” Point of fact, he _knows_ that’s what Erica and Boyd are doing. They made it plain that they had that in mind as soon as Derek suggested the tour. But he’s also pretty sure he knows which room they’re in, and he knew it wasn’t this one before he came in. He had a different reason in mind. “Have you picked a college yet?”

Stiles’s brow furrows. “Are you from the press? Is this some kind of stealth interview?”

It’s a risk, but Derek decides to take it. “My name is Derek,” he says, leaving off the last name. He holds out one hand, offers it where Stiles can see it, palm up and empty. “I’m actually a History major at Brown, and I’m in DC for the weekend with my friends Boyd and Erica. They came to see Boyd’s family. He’s asked her to marry him—which his parents won’t approve of considering we’re all only sophomores—but it’ll be a long engagement. They’ll get over it. Erica and Boyd have been together five years as it is, and I don’t think that’s going to change.”

It’s a lot more information than he should be giving out, but he can see the moment that Stiles relaxes, the moment that he decides that Derek’s just this guy. Just someone either out for a prank or looking for his friends, like he said. Stiles takes the step forward, clasps Derek’s hand and long fingers wrap around him, holding on firmly for just a moment before Stiles drops the grip.

“RISD, actually,” Stiles says, and there’s a pale flush staining his cheeks. “I’m hoping to take classes at Brown while I’m there, in the CompSci department; I want to go into the artistic side of computer animation. My best friend Scott will be there, too, and I’m really looking forward to being anonymous again. If it’s possible to be anonymous when there are Secret Service guys looking over my shoulder all the time.”

“It’s not,” Derek says without thinking of it, and when Stiles gives him a _look_ , Derek pushes at his glasses. “I might know from experience,” he admits.

Stiles’s eyes go wide, and he steps forward abruptly, jabs a finger at Derek’s chest. “Right, because _you know_ what it’s like to have the Secret Service following you around everywhere. You know what it’s like to be singled out at school, to have the press staring at you, waiting for you to make some mistake. You know what it’s like to not be able to trust anyone, because maybe it’s about you, but no, maybe it’s really about the fact that your dad just happens to be the fucking President of the United States, so it has _never_ actually been about you. Not once. Not ever.”

It’s nice to know the glasses work. Of course, it’s been five years, and Derek’s filled out since he was sixteen. He’s put on breadth in his shoulders and several pounds of muscle. His face is less teenage-round and more chiseled, and the scruff he leaves for a beard makes him look older than twenty. Still. It surprises him sometimes how easy it’s become to slide under the radar.

He lifts his hands, spreads them instead of stopping Stiles from poking at him. “Can I show you something?” he says. “Because what you really should be asking is what I was doing under the desk.”

Stiles takes three quick steps backwards, hands abruptly thrown up between himself and Derek. “So now you admit that you’re here to kill me?”

Derek keeps his own hands in the air, shakes his head. “No. And I was looking for Erica and Boyd, but I also know exactly which room they’re in, because it’s the same room they used to sneak off to when we were all fifteen and they first started making out for hours at a time. I am pretty sure they lost their virginity on that green couch.”

Stiles’s gaze narrows. “The one in the room down the hall?”

Derek nods, lowers his hands slowly and goes to one knee. He turns on the flashlight on his phone, and angles it up, underneath the desk. “Come here. I swear, it’ll make sense.”

Stiles approaches slowly, sinks into a crouch. When Derek rotates to lie down, head under the desk, Stiles gives him a dubious look, but he follows. As soon as they are both on their backs, Derek raises the phone again, shines the light on the dark wood, where there are lighter marks crudely scratched into the surface.

_Laura Hale, 10. Derek Hale, 8. Cora Hale, 6. — 2/1/2005_

Stiles reaches up, brushes his fingers over the rough letters, then he looks at Derek. “You’re Derek Hale.”

Derek smiles slightly. “I’m Derek Hale, yes. I grew up here. This is the room where Laura, Cora, and I sat to do our homework. The twins never got their names on the desk because they were born that year that we moved in, when dad started his first term.” He shrugs. “I was on a tour, and when Erica and Boyd decided to sneak off and explore for old time’s sake, I wanted to find out if the same desk was still here. I honestly thought they’d replace it.”

Stiles huffs. “Gerard Argent put a lot of things in storage during his term, replaced everything with some godawful chrome and glass that his daughter liked. My dad hated it, and the first thing he did was get all the old furniture restored to the original locations. Including this desk. And that green couch. Which I am never going to sit on again, thank you very much.”

Derek turns off the flashlight, and they lie there for a long moment in the dark. It’s strangely calm, and Derek can feel Stiles relaxing by inches next to him, until he breathes out a low sigh.

“So I guess you do get it,” Stiles says.

“I do get it,” Derek echoes. “Yeah, I know what it’s like growing up with the Secret Service always there. I was sixteen when we left here, and Laura was heading off to college. They stayed on me through the rest of high school, just in case, but I insisted on going to college on my own. I wanted to have a few years of freedom before Mom makes her run.”

“Right.” Stiles nods. “I’ve met your mom. Your dad’s busy being ex-president and traveling the world to do good things. Your mom’s building up to her campaign to succeed my dad.” He glances at Derek, and Derek can just barely see the smirk. “You’ve got time. Pretty sure I’m going to call this home for eight years, dude.”

“You’re going to go to school and find your own space,” Derek says. He slides out from under the desk, offers a hand to Stiles as they both sit up. Stiles’s fingers are long and warm, curling around Derek’s for a moment too long before Stiles retreats and shoves his hands back in his pockets. “But you’re probably stuck with the Secret Service as long as your dad’s president. Or until you convince them that you’re enough of an adult on your own to do without.”

“Hey, I’m already eighteen,” Stiles protests. “I’m graduating in May. Home schooled for my senior year, which is such a joy, let me tell you. But I’m into RISD so I can’t complain.”

Derek draws his knees up, sits there on the floor with his arms over his knees. “And I’m at Brown. So if you want to get away, get a chance to hang out with someone who won’t care, feel free to look me up.”

Stiles holds out his hand, and when Derek does nothing, he shakes it. “Phone,” Stiles demands, and with a small smile, Derek puts his phone on Stiles’s palm. It’s while they’re exchanging numbers, while Derek is typing in his name on Stiles’s phone, that he remembers something important.

Derek hands the phone back across, takes his and tucks it in his pocket. “So, I… I watch the news.” He rolls his eyes when Stiles just raises an eyebrow like _so_. “I saw the report after you snuck out right before inauguration. When you decided to explore DC on your own.”

Stiles flushes. “Oh. The one time I managed to not stumble over anything, or face plant, and yet still broke the media. Yes, I did go out to a gay club. Contrary to popular opinion, I was not drunk; I save that for at home, where no one can see me and yell at my dad because I’m a delinquent. I’m bi, and I’m pretty out about it.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that about three times in one interview,” Derek says with a small smile. “I never came out while my dad was in office. I hadn’t fully figured it out at the time—I had ideas, but I wasn’t sure. I’m sure now.”

“Also bi?” Stiles asks.

“Panromantic. Demisexual.” Derek says the words carefully, because he doesn’t want to be misunderstood. He doesn’t want to hide, and he really wants to see what Stiles thinks of it.

Stiles looks thoughtful as he nods. “Okay. So. If I asked if you wanted to get coffee while you’re in DC this weekend you (a) wouldn’t be intimidated by my hulking shadows, and (b) might not be offended that I’m interested?”

“Well, (a) I might know your shadows unless the staff has changed, and (b) I might be interested as well.” Derek licks his lips, shrugs one shoulder. “In the romantic side. I won’t know about anything else until later, if you’re willing to give me a chance.”

Stiles grins then, a bright smile that lights his eyes. “Okay. My day is looking up. My weekend is looking up. And very possibly my future is looking up.”

Derek offers his hand again, palm up, and after a moment Stiles settles his over it. Those long fingers tangle with Derek’s, and they both stand together. Derek tugs gently, and Stiles comes closer, lets Derek pull him in for a hug. And Derek might really like the way that Stiles just puts his arms around him and hold on, not trying to touch anywhere more than his back, not trying to past a simple hug.

“We should get you back to the tour,” Stiles says. “And find your friends before my detail finds them, since they’re probably looking for me right now. We don’t want my guys stumbling into anything that would burn their eyes, right?”

Derek lets him go, but keeps their hands tangled. “Sounds about right. I’ll text you.”

“I’ll let you know where and when to meet,” Stiles tells him, squeezes his hand. “Be ready for a media circus. They love to watch me screw up.”

“Not a stranger to that, either. It’ll be fine.” Derek gestures with his free hand, then decides that he should open the door, walk through first and clear the path for the First Son. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Stiles. Hopefully more than once.”

They stay linked as they head down the hall, and Derek has a good feeling about this. He’d wondered what it would be like, to tour the place he grew up, and he’s surprised to find that it actually feels a little like coming home again.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


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